


The Troubled Mind, His Counselor, The Infamous, and Their Misadventure

by Graf_Fetti



Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, My First Work in This Fandom, Mystery, Slice of Life, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-03 08:18:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10240079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Graf_Fetti/pseuds/Graf_Fetti
Summary: This is the story of a no-one meeting by happenstance a relevant figure. Franklin Barker (he goes by Frank) is our window from which we look out from. He lives in his little world of little impact, and he does as he wants because it'll help him feel better. This story will go on over the going days and months he spends looking into knowing what made Dawn Bellwether what she was/is.





	1. "or The start an introspective mystery that may or may not be worth the trouble"

                I'm sitting around at my place right now in the living room. It's the weekend, and Sean, my best buddy and a sheep, is busy with work right now. He's a therapist (technically, his job title is "Mental Health Counselor", but it's all the same to me). I'm doing okay right now; it's about 6:27 pm right now and I woke up about thirty-minutes ago, so I should get some "breakfast" in my system. I say breakfast in quotes only because I'm a nocturnal mammal; timber wolf, actually. I'm considering to call in pizza to deliver or to just walk out to a place with food. I should take my pills before the voices come around. I don't listen to the voices, but I don't like hearing them all the time.

I arrive at my bathroom and get to my medicine cabinet, opening the door of it and getting a bottle of pills. They're labeled Risperdal on the side, so it's the right ones. I take my meds and go back to my living room. I like the futon. It doubles as my bed, sure, but it's still comfy. Sean sometimes tells me that my place reeks of wet dog, but I don't think that it's too bad. I'm kinda bored sitting around my place. I don't really feel like just chilling behind my laptop, so I guess I'll walk around some. It'll be good for my health, since I did hear there's a really good bug-burger place near my place; ain't no way I'm going there without getting the biggest and meatiest burger I can stomach. … Yeah… In hindsight, I think I might have an over-eating habit.

I go to the side-closet and open up my somewhat limited wardrobe of different colored pants, tees, and flannel button-ups. What should I wear? What should I wear? Hm. I know! I throw on a pair of grey cargo pants, white tee, and a maroon-and-green plaid flannel. I also get my boots on. Sure, I'm not really needing boots for anything, but I like my boots. They're light-brown work boots that you just put your foot in to wear; I think they look nice. They aren't leather, though; they're canvas and felt. One last thing, though: I need my ear buds. I walk over to the coffee table with my electronic stuff sitting on top with cords snaking from the laptop, smartphone, and wireless earbuds (Bingo) to a power strip and wall socket. I unplug the phone and buds, placing my phone in my pocket and the headset of the earbuds around my neck. A sync and song setting later, I had some walking music for me. It's currently set to some of Sean's picks, so I have my ears rumbled with Panthera before I pause the tune. I think I'll change it to something less… Metal, I guess. It's not bad, but I'm not in a "Grunge Metal" mood right now. After putting on Queen playing "Killer Queen", I walk over to the door out from my apartment and head on out.

* * *

 

                It's evening right now, and it's actually quite nice out at night. Not gonna knock on the diurnal folks out there, but I hated being up in day time as a pup. Maybe it's just a holdover from prior generations of wolves, but I like being awake at times where my eyes aren't actively at risk of burning if I look up. There were a few other people out on the sidewalks where I was, some were daytime mammals looking for dinner before bed while others were nighttime mammals looking for breakfast (and I've already said which camp I'm in, between those two). I recall Sean telling me to try and meet others so I can get better at socialization. I've been a wall flower my whole life, even before I got a doctor's diagnosis for Schizophrenia; people skills are more Sean's thing than mine, hence why HE'S the one counseling and not me. Anyway, I notice a few prey mammals bunched up near the burger place I like going to (it's called "Murphy's Munchies"; Yip doesn't do the place justice when looking up the reviews on Murphy's). It's a pretty odd thing to see, a collection of antelope, rabbits, sheep, a giraffe of all things, and a few other assorted prey mammals all trying to get in for the food. Did Murph add in a plant-matter selection to the menu? That's what I'm gonna run with. I'm not big on seeing anything else except the usual in front of me.

                Y'know, on second thought, maybe I can deal with going to someplace else. I'm not really in the mood to try talking my way through what seem like new faces to Murphy's. I start changing the music playing to something random, and just as I find something with a good rhythm, I hear someone behind me drop something. They mutter something, and then I turn around. It's a little sheep, about as tall as my waist and squinting around at the sidewalk. Over a few feet away against a building wall, I notice a pair of pretty scratched-up pot-bottom glasses with pretty big lenses. Oh crap, did I smack someone with my tail again? I gotta get better at being aware of that.

I pause the music, a little ditty that everyone might know by the one and only Daft Skunk (hint-hint, it's goes AROUND). "Hey, uh… Sorry about that," I apologize, dropping down to try and be eye-to-eye with whoever it is that I accidentally hit.

The sheep (who turns out to be a girl, if I took a guess from the voice) replies bitterly, "Just help me find my glasses." I think she can see me well enough without the glasses, but I'm not exactly sure.

I comply. Maybe she'll be happier if she had her things back. I don't like losing stuff of mine, so I can relate there. Anyway, I get the glasses in my paws. The whole frame was made of metal and the lenses looked like hell, sort of like it was sand blasted or something. "Sorry for… for scratching the lenses," I say sheepishly. "They aren't cracked, so-" She snatches it out of my paws, cutting me off. The ewe puts on her glasses, looks up at me, and then her eyes widen. I try to shuffle back a bit so my snout isn't in her face. She looks… scared; bitter like before, but also scared. I think. She huffs and then walks off, hurriedly trotting off to wherever she's going. I reach out my arm, almost trying to ask for her name. Almost. It's probably not my business and I don't think she likes me enough to warrant a try at conversation. I half-heartedly mumble, "Sorry," to no one in particular and stand back up. Y'know, I think all I really said for conversation is just apologies, no actual conversation. Why didn't I say anything else? I think I was scared, too. She seemed familiar, though… wait… no. That's probably just a coincidence. I don't think I noticed anything matching up between that sheep and… It's probably nothing. It's probably a coincidence, and that's all. I shake my head, getting back on some music for me to listen to as I go back to roaming the streets; "Waka Waka" by Gazelle (wait… why do I have Gazelle here? It's not bad, but I don't remember downloading any of her tunes).

                Should I go after her? It might just be some other lamb with a grudge against meat-eaters; it's not exactly a new thing that came up in modern times. Besides, Sean says it's not good to be following around people like that. But if it is the ex-mayor, I probably got off lucky if there isn't still some big conspiracy going on and I'm on the hit list. … Looking back at what I just suggested seems awfully ludicrous to be true. I really want to know, but I don't know if there's going to be anything big coming out of this. I have work on Monday, and I don't think my boss will accept "I'm trying to find and talk to the high-profile and specist ex-terrorist/ex-mayor, Dawn Bellwether, even though I'm one of the very mammals she was a bigot against" as a legit reason to skip out on moving boxes in Storage.

I'm just going to let the thoughts stew for a bit until I can come up with a better plan. I'm still hungry, anyway. Sean can tell me more, later.


	2. "or The meeting with the protagonist's companion, who'll be an anchor to the sane and civil in case things go completely off the rails."

                It’s the next day now, though still the weekend. Tomorrow is work. I kind of wonder how I should go about looking for that lamb from yesterday; the one that looked like the ex-mayor. Granted, I barely know where to start, but if anything, Zoogle has an answer. I’m not at my home right now, but I’m actually just wandering around the sidewalk and inner city of Zootopia (it’s usually just Savana Central, but I sometimes wander around Sahara Square, too); it’s 11:25 pm on the dot, according to the phone clock. I already took my medicine before leaving the house, so I don’t have too much distraction. Sean probably should know about what I saw, but I didn’t tell him yesterday. I… I probably should’ve, but I didn’t. My bad.

He’s probably sleeping right now, but maybe he’ll answer if I pick up. He tends to take up Friday daylight hours to just get enough coffee and energy drinks to help him power through the times I get counseling from him. In all honesty, I think he’ll be fine if I do call. He’s had stranger clients than me, so I’m told. I get out my phone and ring up my counselor through the personal number.

The other side of the call picks up after a few seconds that I was, admittedly, very impatient about. On the other end, I hear a yawning bleat of, “Gaaaaah… …mm… Frank, lad, is there something wrong?”

I say, “Hi Sean. Just calling to talk about things.”

There’s an awkward pause, lasting a whole fifteen seconds. “Frank, can this wait? It’s near fecking MIDNIGHT. I’m not built for this all the time, laddy.”

“Sorry. Just something about yesterday that I wanted to say to you since I didn’t say so when it happened.”

“… Alright, Frank. Just… Just keep it short. I’m hoping to sleep, here. Eventually…” He chuckles a bit with that last word, to which I kind of join in with.

Well, here goes nothing. I take a deep breath before I start, and then I blurt, “I saw someone that looked like the crazy ewe that almost tanked the city, and it was on yesterday, and I did take my pills yesterday.” Another pause, and then a muffled ‘thunk’. “Sean? Sean, you still there?”

There’s another ‘thunk’ and then Sean’s voice came back. “Y-Yeah. Yeah. Just fumbled the phone,” he says, sounding a bit apprehensive. “You sure it was her?”

“Ain’t sure. I was just around at Murph’s when the doe accidentally dropped her glasses. I helped get them back, but she seemed awfully sour at the time, even before I said or did anything.”

Sean sighs. There was the sound of hoofed “fingers” (I think? I never asked Sean about what the digits of an ungulate’s forelimb are called.) clacking against wood; probably just a nightstand. “… Whether it’s the damn lamb or not, don’t do anything until we talk more about this.”

I nod slowly, even though we aren’t using Muzzletime or anything like it (I dunno. It just never stuck with me.), and respond, “… uh… alright, mister.” He says I’m not supposed to do anything, but I don’t think he knows that I’m gonna try finding her, regardless.

That thought quickly evaporates when Sean warns, “That means not trying to chase her or sniffing her out or anything else. Let’s not go around crying wolf where there isn’t one, lad.” Crying wolf? I can’t help but snort a bit of stifled laughter while I wait for Sean to catch the pun. “… Erm… Phrasing,” he adds, now noting the little joke he made.

I chuckle, but I press my case. “I still want to know if the lady is Bellwether or not. I mean, you know I don’t check the news and all if I can help it, so unless she got released or something, I don’t think there’s much I can do to or about her.”

“Frank, no. I’d rather not incite paranoia and panic any more than there already is. I still get shit from people just because I’m a sheep, and trying to find the deviant that caused this disaster of tension won’t do either of us a favor.”

“Lest we forget that bigotry goes both ways…” I mumble. “Sean, I just thought we’d talk this out so I could get some confirmation from someone more sane tha-”

Sean shouts, “Lad, this don’t got things to do with sanity! You don’t even have insanity! This is more like a grudge than anything else. We can’t just go around and try finding Hellwether to off the bitch. I don’t blame you for being mad, but if this was boiling around, why haven’t you said anything?!”

A grudge? I don’t think I have a grudge. Do I? I’m not sure. Maybe I do; it’s not like I don’t have a reason to be pissed the hell off at Bellwether. I probably haven’t vented all my feelings about that, but I don’t think I’m so mad that hurting her will fix anything. I huff, “… Okay? Maybe I had a grudge and I never noticed it before. I don’t see how that’s changing anything I’m thinking or saying.”

“Frank, I’m your counselor, and more so, I’m your fecking friend! I don’t want you hurting yourself or anything like it on a hunch and a grudge.”

“Give me a chance, Sean! Just let me try to see if this is Bellwether or not.”

“It’s midnight, Frank! I’m cranky and I wanna go back to bed,” he grumbles. “Don’t do anything to find her right now, alright? For peace of mind, I only last heard of her being in a max-security prison and that’s it. Leave it at that, and let me sleep.”

“Sean, I just want to have answers to questions I have! This isn’t me asking to go to the fucking moon by Wednesday; at least HUMOR me on this!”

“No. Just… NO. Okay? There was only one time I ever did humor you on one of these things, and you said it was Tod Cruise in a green floral shirt pushing a kit stroller! PLEASE let me go to bed.”

That was four years ago! And even then, I admitted to being wrong, after finding out. I bemoan, “Fine. Can we-”

“On our scheduled meeting, lad. I can move it as soon as two days from now. THEN, and only then, can we talk about this seriously.”

“Alright…” I growl. Growl? I shouldn’t be this angry this soon. I took my medicine. There’s an awkward pause, though this is more my fault than Sean’s. “… Look, sorry about getting into an argument, Sean. It just happened and I’m really not wanting to let this go.”

“Just drop it and move on. Alright, lad? I got work in the morning. Goodnight, Frank.”

“Night, Sean.” After that debacle, I hang up. I’m not sure what happened. Did I fly off the handle already? I know I took my medicine today. I didn’t think this would be a touchy subject like it seems to be. Sean and I’ve talked about touchy stuff before and I’ve rarely gone off on Sean. He deals with stuff like what I did regularly, sure, but I was being a dick. Probably still am, since I’m still REALLY wanting to just go do my own info search on Bellwether. Maybe… no. I’m not doing that just to get some more ideas. I know better and I do better than that.

 

I should try to take in the surroundings. There’s… there’s a weasel peddling some bootleg flicks on a street corner. One of the buildings across the street looks like it’s a store for tchotchkes and effectively useless novelties. I think I’ll go there. Maybe Sean will like a knick-knack from here. It shouldn’t be too hard to pick; he sometimes does recordings of songs out of other genres so he can make them more Metal (which makes me think THAT is why I downloaded a couple Gazelle songs at all). Hm.

Well, anyway, into the shop I go. The place is filled to the brim with novelty stuff; booklets of romantic pickup lines (I’m probably the kind of sap those things try to appeal to), SO many coffee mugs with semi-sarcastic jokes on the side or with puns, and I could swear there were some patterned selfie-sticks for some ungodly reason. I wander past the register and look down at the rack of music discs (CDs are still a thing). There were the ubiquitous ones that you’d expect to see on the racks (your Journey s and your Gazelle s and Metallica s), and there were also a few of what I call “Hipster Tunes”. “Hipster Tunes” are the obscure and genre confused things that I’m surprised haven’t been put on vinyl just to avoid being “mainstream” (just as an example, behold the majesty of Flanell Grüns Blut and their self-titled first album). There’s probably a few diamonds in the rough, but I’m not really in the mood to explore right now. Although, maybe I’ll just get Flanell Grüns Blut for Sean. It’d simultaneously let me spite him with music I don’t like and apologize to him with music he can rerecord in his way. Petty as it may be, I take the disc and fork over the duly needed price to purchase.

                I walk out of the novelty shop. Over back with the weasel hocking bootlegs, some beaver was arguing about prices with the weasel. It’s not my business, so I just walk on the sidewalk back home. I fiddle with my phone for a bit and pull up one of the rerecords Sean has made; the classic soft-rock tune of “Hey Jude” put in its paces for a metal rendition. I sing along as I walk, since I know the song word-for-word at heart.


	3. "or The protagonist's place of work and a perchance meeting with someone from before"

                Yesterday was probably just bad luck. Sean normally is more pleasant when getting calls from me, though maybe he just had a bad day. I’m at work right now, but I did take my medicine before leaving the house. I’m wearing uniform (a yellow-green polo with khaki pants) while I stand behind a register. The dumb-looking clock on the wall above the double-sliding doors has the big arm pointed at 7 and the little arm pointed between 2 and 3. I probably look stupid working at Green Fields (a store specifically designed to cater to herbivore mammals), but it’s a living. Besides, I like the night shift here. I’ve always had night shifts. It's quiet, and the only times that it gets noisy is when the weirdos come out the woodwork. At least I’m about as weird. My boss is a nice guy, a big ol’ Cape Buffalo and about as masculine as expected. I eeked out a few raises here and there for worker loyalty and diligence on duty, so I’m getting a few bucks more than minimum wage. He actually was willing to risk having me still around on staff back when there was a huge scare about predators going savage. Part of it was probably because if I snapped, it’d be because he snapped me in half (he bench-presses 200 pounds when he’s going light-rep!).

The slide-doors open up and a low chime plays to signal me to get off my ass and help out. The customer is pretty short, bundled up in a hoodie, long pants, and boots. Crap, is this a would-be shoplifter? Maybe it’s a hobo and they’re just looking for help. I sigh out of pity and leave the register. There isn’t anyone else coming by the door, so I’m pretty sure I can leave post to help out. I shuffle over, hoping not to startle the hooded person, and greet them. “Howdy, there,” I say, pausing to yawn. I shake off the yawn and continue, “We-… We-Welcome to… Green Fields. Need help… uh…” I trail off my sentence. They’re already gone, walking down the aisle with nonperishable dry food. Must’ve walked off while I yawned. I went to bed earlier than I usually do last night, and I think it’s messing with my sleep schedule. I follow them down the aisle. They have a few boxes of granola bars in their arms; the customer has hooves and I think there was a glint of glasses. Wait… This seems awfully familiar. “Have I… You seem familiar, me thinks… Have we met?” The hooded customer freezes in place, like I caught some pup with his paws in a cookie jar. Come on, say something, Frank! “I-I might be wrong. I mean… I just- I just thought you looked like someone I met. I was at Murphy’s Munchies, you see. Local dive near my place on… um… up at Price Drive.” I lean against one of the building’s pillars (we usually put fire extinguisher cases on the pillars as well as on the walls) and try chatting some more. Hopefully, my boss won’t mind. At least the little customer is facing me now; it seemed like the same sheep I met a few days ago, glasses and all. “It’s-It’s a real great place, actually. I go there a lot; mostly for the big bug-burgers they cook up,” I ramble, “You ever been there? The last time I was, there were a bunch of, like… prey, right? L-like, I saw a giraffe there. A big, tall giraffe fella, actually. Never… I didn’t speak to him, though. I just saw he was there. Also a ton of bunnies, too.” She seems a bit confused right now about something. Crap, maybe she said something and I railroaded her. I stand up off from the pillar and hold my paws up defensively. “Sorry, uh… There something you’re looking for? Like around here in the store, I mean.”

The lamb frowned at me, readjusting the bunch of boxes she had in her arms. “No. I’m getting these and leaving.”

“Alright. Uh… I’ll-I’ll-I’ll ring you up.” I offer a hand in carrying some of the boxes, but she huffs and gives me the cold shoulder. Maybe when I yawned earlier, I had stank breath from forgetting to brush my teeth. I don’t know if I did that or not. My teeth feel weird, though… Maybe I’ll brush before bed tonight. I get back around behind the register and check the granola boxes out. “Three boxes of store-brand granola plus tax is $12.90. Cash or credit?”

She pats down her hoodie pockets for a while, then moves on to pant pockets. “… Fuck.”

“You… seem a bit short on cash,” I state, emulating the strongest powers of Captain Obvious.

“God damn it!” she exclaims, stomping the tile in anger. “I had money with me. I swear, I did!”

Okay, Frank. Here’s the chance to do her a favor and maybe find out what her problem is. I have my own wallet with me. I pull out my debit card and swipe it, handling the fee of almost a week’s worth of work so the sheep could have the granola bars. She seemed awfully confused at my gesture of goodwill, giving that same bitter and befuddled look I’m pretty sure she had when I first bumped into the ewe. “No need to fret. I can do overtime for the cash.”

“I… Uh…” She’s speechless. Hopefully, I didn’t do anything bad. I bag up the snack bars and hand them over to her. The sheep reluctantly mumbles, “…thanks…”

Just as she turns away towards the door, I speak up. “Hey, wait. Uh… I didn’t catch your name.”

“Why would you care?”

I shrug. “Night shifts don’t have a lot of people passing through. And I try to be better at talking to people.”

She looks at me with round green eyes (I thought sheep have line eyes. Genetic quirk?) and then quickly hurries back out the door, pulling her hood tighter over her head.

                I want to follow, but I’m still doing my shift. I probably should’ve taken a guess at her name, just so I can get somewhere with my personal investigating. Yeah, Sean told me not to, but I gotta get something substantial if I’m going to convince him to do this with me. Like he said, no crying wolf, as the old saying goes. Hmm… Zoogle! Of course! I whip out my phone and tap away, filling the search bar for “Dawn Bellwether Parole”. This’ll be it; if there’s enough people saying that the sheep is out of prison on parole, then I’ll have enough info to prove-

Nothing. The Zoogle searches just lead to long-ass rants with a bunch of rightfully rotten things about the ex-mayor of the city vocalized on the internet, and how parole would be “teh worstest thing evar”. Really. There weren’t any official news things saying that there was a prison break with the sheep missing, but there wasn’t anything saying she was out. … So… Either Sean is right and I’m wigging out over nothing, or ZPD is ludicrously tight about keeping paroled crooks off big-name tabloid circles. Oh, sure, there were a few message boards here and there saying Bellwether was already out and plotting again, but I just chalk that up to conspiracy theorists flexing what influence they can for the time they were right about sheep being behind a government conspiracy. I’m empty-pawed right now, and Sean’ll probably think I’m just messing with him. I’m not, though. I swear, I’m not. He’ll probably just take it like that Tod Cruise fiasco WAY back around when Sean and I first met. Poor ram must think I’m skipping meds on accident (I sometimes do, but not to THIS extent). How am I supposed to explain this to him? Hell, he probably did research on this already before me; probably with more resources than my minor Zoogle-Fu. I can try adlibbing my way into getting Sean to help me out, but he and I both know I’m a terrible liar. … Well, it doesn’t hurt to try. Though, if I want it to be convincing, I might have to forgo tomorrow’s medicine. No, wait; that’s a terrible plan. He thinks I’m delusional already. Skipping meds would make things worse. Tomorrow, I’ll set up a sick-day and hope to God that Sean will hear me out.


	4. "or Giving some more to the protagonist’s companion, just so we don’t have to take so many guesses at what constitutes that character"

                There’s knocking at my door. I’m at home right now lounging on my futon while I have a handful of browser windows skimming through conspiracy Reddit-threads and the public ZPD records of released criminals. I switch the browser window to an RPG from a generation or two ago (so it’s not super intensive on my PC) and check the clock; 9:18 pm. Maybe it’s Sean and he’s here to tell me I was wrong about worrying. I mean, I sort of want him to be right, but I sort of also want him to be wrong. That might be bad… Anyway, I get up and answer the door. And lo and behold, it is, indeed, Sean that stands behind the door with a Snarlbucks tall-cup in one hoof and a paper bag (also branded with Snarlbucks) in the other hoof.

I wasn’t really expecting him to come up here. Usually when there’s counseling sessions, he lets me come over to his place for it. “Hey Sean,” I greet.

“Hey Frank,” replies the sheep. “You got my message, right?”

I nod, stepping aside to let Sean walk into my house. “Sure. Boss said I… I could take a sick-day today so we can do our-our, uh… usual thing.” The sheep walks in and takes a seat on the futon, sipping at his joe and setting the paper bag next to my laptop. Please don’t press the home key, Sean. PLEASE. “Didn’t think you’d be okay with doing an early session, though. I mean… In hindsight, it’s… not really likely for me to see important mammals l-like… uh…” I trail off as I stare into my closet, deciding on a flannel to wear. I want to just say ‘I saw Dawn Bellwether and I think I want to hold a conversation with her’ with the same ease I had a few days ago, but it’s always easier to say things when you have a level of distance (like a phone call or an email). Trying to say it now while Sean, who I need to reiterate is a SHEEP, is within physical arms-reach just seems like a whole other kind of ordeal.

Sean chuckles, “It’s not that unlikely, lad. Gazelle is a native to Zootopia, if I recall right; she’s not too hard to find around the city. Oh, and I grabbed a snack for you, too. Thought you’d want it.”

Snack? I don’t usually get those, unless I’m having a breakdown or something. … That’s not a good sign. I turn around, having picked a blue-and-yellow flannel to wear over my lime-green t-shirt, and plop down on the futon a bit away from Sean. “Alright. I just thought it’d be better to talk it all out when you had free time or talk-therapy time on Fridays.” I grab my phone and earbuds and put them in their places on me, along with sliding the laptop to me and shutting the screen closed. I then go to peek in the bag; a bready and cooked-meat smell arose from the bag’s contents.

“I got some foul looks for it, but I got you some Cricket Kolaches for the road.” That’s real sweet of him. I may not like going around Snarlbucks, but they at least have a passable bakery.

I pull one out and take a bite into the kolache. “For the road?” I ask.

He nods, patting my shoulder and getting up from the futon. “Right. I was going to take us to my flat and talk things out there, unless you’d rather stay here. I brought the recording stuff for documenting, if you want to stay here.”

… Huh… I kind of want to stay here, but I don’t want Sean to think I’m getting obsessed. Sean told me before that I should try to be out and about more, and I sort of do that with the weekend walks that I do. “I don’t know. I mean… No thanks, we-we can go to your place.”

Sean is already at the door. “Alright. Me car’s downstairs at the front of the building. Have everything?”

“Yep.” Sean begins walking out from my apartment. I follow behind with the kolaches, finishing the one I already pulled out.

                Sean and I step down the stairs to the building lobby (I live on the second-floor of an okay apartment complex). The receptionist, a camel in a spotted dress and sweater, fills in a ledger. Without looking up from the digital spreadsheets on the computer, she greets, “Hello Shawn. Hello Frank.” Oh right. Not sure if I’ve said this before or not, but I pronounce Sean’s name like the way he spells it out, but everyone else usually just uses the ‘Shawn’ pronunciation.

Sean waves a hoof to her. “Pleasant day to you, Miss Malhoof.” He nudges me with his elbow and whispers to me, “Don’t forget to say hi.”

I was busy eating, but I do wave to her with the paw holding my bag of Snarlbucks snacks, rattling the pastries (do kolaches count as pastries?) in the paper. Mrs. Malhoof looks up at me. I hope I’m not looking dumb. She doesn’t say anything for a moment, but then she sighs and shakes her head. “Rent’s due at the end of the month, Frank. Don’t forget.”

“I- Y-Yes Mrs. Malhoof.” Yeah, Moushira Malhoof (that’s what she said was her full name when I first moved in here) is my landlady. Exceptionally patient, and I sometimes feel like she was a school teacher for little pups or foals or whatever. I hated school as a pup, but then again, I’m pretty sure most children hate school for one reason or another. With that, the camel returns to going over the building paperwork (and also what I think is the sound of Solitaire being played) and Sean whistles for my attention. He’s at the door out from the lobby. I follow him out and hop into the passenger seat, getting out another kolache and nibbling at it. “I think I have the cash saved up for rent. Maybe after the official stuff for counseling, could you… uh…”

“Bank?”

“Yeah. We should head to the bank.” The engine of Sean’s car rumbles to life. His car is a sedan, of course; one of the newer models from maybe a year or less back. The back seat had a couple books, some paper folders, and a duffle bag with a plastic shield sticking out. The sedan lurches from the parking lot and we hit the road. I turn back around and face forward, making sure my seatbelt is on. “Hey Sean, I… have a question.”

“I’ll answer as I can, lad.”

I hold up my arms to emphasize my question. “Why is it that, like… We all call what’s on my arms paws, but also call it hands? And then, why is it you have what’s called hands, but it’s called hooves and not paws?”

“Eh, it boils down to semantics, Franky. All paws are hands, not all hands are paws. All hooves are hands, not all hands are hooves. Et cetera, et cetera. It’s why a bunch of mammals are called people; keeping a broad term to include all the various species that might be in a group makes it easier to address a multitude.”

“Huh. Okay. Just… uh… Just wanted to ask.” I pull out a kolache and take a bite out of it. “Y’know. It just popped up and I didn’t know if there was an answer or not.”

Sean adjusts the radio frequency while I stare out the window at the passing pedestrians. The sheep replies, “Not a problem, Frank. Conversation is good to have, and I think you’re getting better at it.”

I wonder if who I thought was Dawn Bellwether is out today, or tonight, technically. Sheep are diurnal, for the most part. Sean’s a perfect example of it. He’s drinking a lot of the coffee he brought, and it’ll probably be empty less than half-way to the Meadowlands area. Although, that sheep I saw twice now seemed pretty awake at night, the last I saw. Maybe she has coffee. Sean tells me that coffee is generally the only way he can function at night without feeling sleep-deprived. I never did like coffee, though; way too bitter, even when it’s mixed with other food or drinks. She might be around if I look hard enough, but we’re already in the middle of Savana Central.

The sedan comes to a stop; there’s a red light up above. I take another bite of kolache and mumble with a muzzle of food, “So, how’s, uh… What’s going on with you, outside of work?”

“Oh, you know, lad. The usual thing. I go meet with me friends from the pub and mess around with LARP. Why do you ask?”

“Well, your gear was in back, so… I was thinking you were doing that or preparing to do that.”

“Right-o. The guys at the pub were running a game last week, and I shook things up by being the Support for a change. I was bottom of the score, but I had some good moments of getting me mates back to fighting and carrying the team.”

“You usually do the… uh…” I start to tap my claws along the door-side as I think. “Oh! The, uh… the Tank, if I recall.”

“Yep. I’d still Tank, but I can at least say I’ve tried my hand at being more than Meat-Shield the Raging.”

“So, what’d you call yourself as the Support? C-Cleric Horn?”

He scoffs, “You wish, laddy. I actually just went with Jim.”

I stared at him with that sort of ‘are-you-serious’ look that I normally get on the receiving end. “… Jim.”

“Aye. Jim. That’s all she wrote.”

I indulge in being facetious for a bit and blurt, “That’s some real fantasy, if I’ve ever heard it!” The two of us begin to laugh at the anti-climactic nature of Sean’s in-game name.

The ride goes on to be rather quiet (or as quiet as listening to Def Leopard and Bon Jovi in a sedan at night is) all the way into the Meadowlands area. Sean’s place is around here. We park at a quaint home with a big front-yard, keeping in line with the neighborhood’s rustic aesthetic. I’m kind of reminded of that one buddy-cop/comedy flick Sean showed me one time. It was pretty funny, and it had good action. Anyway, I hop out from the sedan; Sean gets out, also.

“I’ll get the door. Think you could get my gear?”

“Sure. It’s fair trade for the free snack.” I open up the back-door, shove the shield back into the bag, zip it up, and then carry the duffel bag over my shoulder. “You want the papers, too?!” I shout to Sean. He’s over at his door fiddling with probably his keys.

Across the lawn at Sean’s door, the sheep bleats back, “I’ll get the papers, Frank!”

Alright. I leave the door open and walk on over to the porch of Sean’s home. Passing through the living room, I drop the bag of prop-weapons at the foot of his recliner. Nearby is a big couch; big enough for maybe a tiger or a lion. Not a bear, though. I don’t think Sean’s ever had a bear here.

Sean shuts the front door, having brought in the papers and books from his car. “Alright, lad. I’ll get me things put away, and then we can get on with the official part of therapy.” He sets one of the books and a stack of papers on the recliner seat. He asks, “Think you can wait here while I get the recorder?”

I nod, sitting down on the couch while Sean takes the rest of his things up a stairwell. My tails wagging; maybe now, Sean will give me a chance about who I think might be Bellwether. … Actually, in retrospect, I don’t think there are other ewes that look like the ex-mayor. Sean hasn’t seen any, and I certainly haven’t. I should be right, but I haven’t found anything credible to back me up.

Sean arrives back with a boxy, plastic recorder a little smaller than the size of my head (barring the snout). The sheep gives me a funny look, but shrugs and goes to the recliner, setting the book and papers in his lap. With a press of the recording button, the things we say are now for the record he’s required to keep for his job. “Date is the fifth of August in 2020. Shawn Lamvor to counsel client Franklin Barker. On record for archival to Meadowland Counseling Firm.”

“Another day, another form to fill,” I remark with a small smile.

“Right. It’s a part of the job, as much as it drains on many a poor mammal.” Sean sighs, getting comfy in his recliner and propping a leg up on his knee. I curl up on my side, laying on the couch. “Anyway, is there anything on your mind that you were wanting to tell me before we start?”

“Well, uh…” Should I tell him about it again? He probably wouldn’t believe me. Or maybe he would? I don’t know for sure. I mumble, “… there’s… uh… I-I’ve been… I think there’s someone I need to find.”

“And was there anyone who told you to do it?”

“… the-... there isn’t anyone,” I stutter, shaking my head. “Just-Just something I wanted to do. Not even, uh… Not even the voices. I’ve been taking my medicine, s-so it can’t be that.”

Sean gives me a raised eyebrow. “Well, alright. Can you tell me who?”

“But I said no one told me to do it.”

“I know. I meant can you tell me who you’re looking for.”

Oh. “Oh…” He probably remembers the call I gave the day before yesterday; he just wants to see if I remember what I said. I stutter, “It’s… erm… I-I-I mean, they-they don’t show up often. I-I only saw them, like… twwwwiiiiiiice… Twice. Yes, I-I saw them tw- only twice. Th-They were… uh… busy, but okay…”

“Right. And they are…”

I can’t tell him; not with the recorder going. I’d probably get screwed over by big-wigs giving orders about… Hell if I know. Maybe they want to make money off the medical research market. Sean would be forced to obey and I’d be left out to dry. Oh God, what about Sean? He’d probably get screwed over worse than me!

The sheep notices my shaking (I was doing it again) and gets out a pair of white boards and markers, handing one of each to me. He jots down something, and then says, “If it’s someone you’ve met before, you can tell me.” He holds up the board, and it reads, [Tell me on marker]

I think I get it now. We’ve actually done this before whenever I’ve felt particularly embarrassed about talking to Sean about things. “Oh, uh… A-Alright. Sure. That-That works,” I mumble, uncapping my marker and keeping the white board nearby. Should I tell him? Will he believe me? I really don’t know… I hope he does. It seemed like he did a few days ago, but he was in bed at the time. This is the only way to do it. “It’s… It’s a little embarrassing, but I thought it was one of… I ain’t sure, but I think it was my third-grade math teacher.” I hold up my board to Sean, which it should say, [Dawn Bellwether] on it.

Sean gave me this disbelieving look. I’m not crazy, and he knows I’m not crazy, so why is he looking at me like I am? “… That’s… That’s not too bad, lad. Did you speak to ‘em or anything?” he asks, though his expression of doubt went against the tone of comfort he gave.

“… Y-yes. I did. Like, uh… Like the way you were telling me to do it; I tried making conversation. It-It didn’t get anywhere, but, uh… it wasn’t bad.” I meant who I thought was miss Bellwether, not my third-grade math teacher. I don’t even know if I’ve seen them or not. “…I-I didn’t do the wrong thing, d-did I?”

Sean crosses his arms, but then drops it. He gets out his white board and writes out, [We’ll talk after sesh]. “No, you did what you thought was right. That doesn’t mean you had ill will,” he sighs, putting down the board. “Anyway, we’ll start off with a short and simple exercise for your cognitive recognition and mental focus. In other words, describe what you see. First card, number 1.” The sheep reaches over and holds up a card (well, it’s more like a panel or a Post-it note made for Rhinos) with a ‘1’ on the back and an abstract image on the front. “Name three things about the picture, and please be specific.”

It’s a house. “Um… red walls. Brownish-red… It’s got two stories, and… I-I think it also has a rabbit inside, through one of the windows.”

“Good on ya, lad. Next is…” The new card has a 5 on the back and a different abstract on the front. “This. What’s the details?”

It’s a car. “View from the side… SUV for an… Elephant? Bear? Someone in the Large-Class of products.”

“Alright. Anything else?”

“… uh… Yellow paint, and spinny hub-caps. Think also, l-like a… Big grill on the bumper.”

Sean shrugs and gets a new card. It has a 32 on the back and… wait, this is actually one of the cards he made.

“Th-this isn’t an abstract, like the others. This is just you dressed up.” The sheep nods, gesturing for me to continue. “Okay… uh… You’re wearing a plaid sk-… Kilt. Not a skirt, a kilt. You also have a… Well, y-you ain’t got solepads or any footwear on, but you have a shirt with a puffy collar and cuffs. You don’t look like this, usually.”

Sean chuckles and puts the cards back. “I don’t. It’s only for the important family occasions, like a wedding or funeral.”

I yawn and sit up. “Anything else?” I ask. I think one of my ears are flat on my head; feels like the right side.

“Just one last exercise, lad. Name a thing in the living room, and then name three things about it.”

I glance at the hearth. I had a dream about Sean and his home a few weeks ago, but it hasn’t come up since. It tends to just be the same as before. Maybe I’ll see it again. I say, “Hearth. It’s… brick laid, with a square opening. I see a log in there, but it looks fresh.” I turn to face the sheep. “Were you going to light it up?”

He shrugs and goes over to the recorder. “Maybe later.” The box clicks as the recording shuts off. “I thought to bust out the old cauldron and make Great-Gran’s family stew. You can handle tubers and leafy plants, right?”

I’ve had his stew before, and it wasn’t too bad. True to my species, I tend to just wolf down food given to me. It gets me a burnt roof of my mouth, but that’s what waiting is for. I don’t get up from the couch, just looking back at my board.

Sean tosses the recorder to his recliner and sits beside me, picking up the whiteboard with [Dawn Bellwether] across its front. “This still bugging you lad? Ol’ Hellwether?”

“… Yeah. I swear, I saw her out there,” I say, pointing out towards the outside to drive my point. “Out there! With-With, like… Others. Normal people just on the street.”

Sean crosses his wooly arms. “Frank, you only just told me this two days ago. I also don’t think Hellwether would’ve been as passive-aggressive at ya, like you say she was. More like just aggressive.”

“I know what I saw, Sean!” I blurt. I’m already up off the couch and defensively glaring at my friend, but he didn’t get up. “The ewe was out there, and I don’t know if this is a sign for things to get weird and dangerous.”

Sean’s used to me getting like this, though I know I’m screwing up something right now. “Well, what do you want me to do? I’m a counselor, not a constable.”

“I don’t know for sure! Prove to me, in some way, that I’m right or wrong. L-like, stake out places and help me know if this really is her and if there’s anything she’s doing.”

“I’m a counselor, not a copper, lad. I already said this. Besides, why do YOU think you’re wanting to know this?”

“I just do!” I exclaim, “It’s for peace of mind, okay? I already did some research on this, lightly.”

“Dare I ask who your sources of information were, besides just ZPD? Perhaps a couple kook-conspiracy-makers that lurk in the dark side of Reddit?”

He had me there. I didn’t have much to go on besides just gut-feeling and hear-say. I plop back on the couch and sprawl long-ways on it, replying, “… O-okay, granted I did look up a few of the latter… B-but hear me out! Some of the… less extreme ones actually had compelling info that Bellwether was released a month or so ago. The rest kinda…”

“Go on, lad. I’ll let you finish.”

“They… also say she’s going to poison the weather machines to make rain cause the whole Night Howler stuff again…”

“… You don’t believe that last bit, do you, laddy?” asks Sean.

“Ob-Obviously not! But even so, I want to know what’s going on for myself! I at least want to be sure that the immediate future isn’t going to have another terror event happen, l-like when she was running the city. She’s probably bad, but I want to be certain that she’s not as bad as everyone says she is. No one is pure evil, right?”

He shrugs and agrees, “Right; but all the same, I don’t want you hurting yourself over nothing. Sometimes, it’s just better to ignore it. You can do that already, so it might be better that you let this slide and not worry about it.”

“But what if I’m right?”

“Well, then you were right about it and it’s better not to invoke whatever chip might be on her shoulder still.”

“Can we at least see if she’s out there? I want peace of mind about this. Maybe she’s changed for the better and no one knows it yet.”

“Your accounts of her talking with you don’t seem like she’s over her hate of anyone with sharp teeth.”

“Come on, man. Just-just humor me. Ask around or check files or something. You can do that, right?”

“I work for a private firm to talk to people with mental sickness. I can’t just whip out a folder and have an extensive dossier on Hellwether and her issues.”

“But… But you know people that can, right?”

“… I work for a private firm! PRIVATE, not GOVERNMENT. Even then, I don’t get to pull psych-profiles out me ass at the drop of a hat.” Damn… I slump and shrink away from my counselor, ears flattened against my head. He slides over and puts a hooved arm over my shoulder. “I’m sorry, lad, but I’m just one ram. If it helps you, I’ll try to keep me eyes out for any suspicious sheep. Should Hellwether be spotted, I’ll let you know.”

I look over to him. “Promise?”

“I promise, lad. Swear it so.”

“… Alright.”

He pats me on the back and gets off the couch. “Chin up, Frank. I’m not mad,” says the ram, giving me a smile of forgiving.

I still think I did something wrong. I just hope this won’t go poorly. “I know you ain’t mad, but you seem more… Disappointed.”

“About what?” I don’t answer, just getting off the couch and staring over at the hearth. “Look, just ease up, lad. How about some music to lift your spirits?”

Music? “Which kind?”

“Whatever helps you feel better, Franklin.”

Hmm… Maybe a happy-sounding song can help. “Alright. I… There’ll be something I’ll like.” Sean nods and leads the way over to the upstairs recording room.

                Sean’s recording room was really just a study converted over to house a crap load of wires, a couple guitars and basses, a pretty extensive drum kit (for me), and a few microphones. In the leftmost back-corner of the room was Sean’s physical collection of music. I went over to that immediately and skimmed through the vinyl and glass discs. Pathera, Led Zepplin, Sheep Trick, Def Leopard, Metallica, ACDC… No, this isn’t it. I skip a shelf and find the next section. Beagles, Fleetwood Yac, Wham!- Okay, I think Wham! will do. I pull the box for the little album; Sean’s tuning his bass-tar (it’s a ten-string beast strung with the wires of a 4-stringer Bass and a 6-stringer Guitar, the latter being a hard instrument even for the paw-given). I hand him the album and tell him, “How about this?”

He picks up the box and looks over the song list. “Looks good here, lad. Which song?”

“How about ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’?”

He responds with the first five notes of the song and a big grin, to which I give a smile in kind and get to the drums.


End file.
